The Manitowoc pilot. [volume] (Manitowoc, Wis.) 1859-1932, 1887-10-06
AN ORDEAL OF FIRE.

said, suddenly letting his heels down
to their natural level, and getting up
| to light his cigar at a swinging lamp
/ of Berlin bronze, 1--we been going to
| ask you several times what became of
the little girl who posed for your
Psyche. Some of the fellows fancied
you were quite serious about her. Old
| Mangam was awfully cut up about it.
He fancied you were going to throw
| away your whole career (puff, puff
| 'by marrying"
Lester Wyndham smiled, but the
| look on his face did not express much
| gaiety.
| ''Uncle Mangam was always imag-
| ming something" he said, briefly.
''Well, " said Toy, resuming his seat,
81 confess that was a little curious
| myself. What became of her, any,
how?"
why, my dear fellow" Wyndham
| replied, testify, chow should I knowp
One isn't bound to keep track of all
the pretty models One-tlirts with. |
shouldn't attempt it. But see here
it is half-past seven. If we are going
to hear 'Mignon tonight, we'd better
be of"
"Caserelli in the role, you say?"
queried Toy. 1--WE heard her SING if
| twice. She is getting too old and fat
for that sort of thing. See here-how
would it do for me to join you after
the second act? l ought to show up at
| the SnowdOn reception, YOU know"
''As you please, Wyndham replied,
buttoning his light overcoat over his
dress suit and tucking an opera hat
under his arm, while he worked on his
gloves.
"Ill stop here o while then" Toy
said, dropping back into the Oriental
chair, which had such charms for him.
Wyndham's rooms were everybody's
admiration. Fortune had smiled on
the young artist. He had sold several
pictures at the Academy, and Just as
Fame placed the laurel on his brow,
his rich OLD uncle died, leaving him all
his money.
The studio of an artist who has
plenty of money ought to be the ideal
of elegance, and Wyndhams was all
that; yet he was not happy man.
As he stepped into the Hanson sum-
moned to convey him to the opera, the
name of his pretty model was ringing
sadly in his ears.
Where was MargueritcP All, if he
| only knew what had become of her!
He was alone in the box when the
| curtain rose. The opening chorus
seemed to him to come from afar off.
He saw nothing of the painted singers
that moved to and fro on the boards
as the argument unfolded itself and
the audience began its fitful applause.
Wyndham saw nothing of the daubed
scenery or the stage trappings; he saw
his own room and little, slender fig
ure modestly draped in soft white
| Marguerite, with eyes like dark pam
| sizes, and a mass of shining hair rip
| pling out of high, Greek knot.
The opera ran on, but Wyndham
sat there, one gloved hand holding the
| libretto unopened, the other resting
passively on the box cushions.
He seemed insensible to everything;
| but there came at last full, splendid
| chorus that might have reused any
one.
Wyndham looked up. The stage
was full of men and girls. He glanced
over them, and then-he started.
Leaning forward, he caught his breath.
Could that be-who was that girl in
white, with golden hair, singing with
| downcast eyes, her cheeks glowing
| with a carmine which art could not
| initiate?
"Margueritew he breathed. "It is
my little Marguerite.
Like one spellbound, he sat there
| leaning breathlessly forward till the
| last note Of the chorus died away.
| bo d.
no! What was that rosy glow abovep
Why did the prima donna glance up
in startled way, and then dash off
the stage?
A sudden burst of smoke and wild
cry of ''Fire" revealed the danger.
Almost instantly the audience was
on its feet. The stage manager rushed
out amidst the flight of the troupe
| through the wings, which were wrapped
in flames in an instant.
''Sit still!' he cried, wildly. ..You
will be crushed to death if you all go
at once. There is time for all to es-
| cape"
But the mad rush for the doors could
not be stopped, and almost before the
| stage manager finished speaking. the
| tire-curtain on the stage was let down
| with a crash.
1t was then that Wyndham darted
out of his box, through the wings to
| the green-room.
There was a wild crush and scram-
bic there, too. Ballet-girls and fgur-
| antes flew in their scanty attire to-
wards the narrow stage exit.
Men and women screamed and shout
| ed; but above the din rose Wyndham's
voice. crying frantically:
''Margneritei Marguerite"
Up ana down the narrow corridors,
where the smoke was gathering so
dense and black that death by sufoca-
ton was the first peril, Wyndham
| dashed like a mailman
"Where is Marguerite Valleaup" he
| cried, frantically.